Afraid of Intelligence
by CapNap
Summary: Mrs. Hudson's granddaugter comes to live at Baker Street. Sherlock and John are taken by surprise by who she really is.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: **Hello all! I've recently found, watched, and fell in love with Sherlock (BBC version of course). So, naturally, I had an idea for a story. Hooray! If only it was always this easy...*shrugs* Oh well. Hope you like this, there's a ton of dialogue so any critique on that would be great. I really want to keep these two in character(: Sherlock, I think, will be a bit of a challange. Next chapter should be up soon. Hopefully. Read, Review, Critique, eat pie, yaddy-yadda, enjoy!_

John clicked the keys on his laptop as he narrated the latest of Sherlock's successes. He sat alone in the living room, reveling in the early morning silence and the sweet smell of his coffee. Baker Street below had yet to come alive and his roommate hadn't come out of his room yet. Leaning back into his chair, he sipped the coffee and let out a pleasured sigh. He was pleased with the life he had here, on Baker Street. No, it wasn't exactly what he imagined he would be doing when he came back from Afghanistan, but then, he didn't really have an idea of what he was planning on doing anyway. The excitement the cases brought was enough to keep him from a mundane existence which was perfectly fine by him. He never did "mundane" well.

Door hinges squeaked and the floor boards moaned under pressure. John twisted in his chair to look at his flat-mate. He watched as he walked from his room to the couch and collapsed into it face first. His bathrobe created a makeshift blanket and Sherlock curled up as much as the couch would allow. Promptly, muffled snoring sounded from under the mess of curly, black hair.

"Well, good morning to you, too," John said, his amusement evident in his voice. Setting his mug on the desk, he rose from his chair and crossed the room. He looked around for the blanket that usually made its home in the vicinity of the couch. With a defeated sigh, he realized that Sherlock, in his half-consciousness, had lain down on top of it. "I try to help you…you just don't make it easy," he mumbled under his breath.

"WhaddifIdondneeedyouhelp?" Garbled words attempted escape from the confines of the couch, but ended up strung together in incoherency.

"What?"

Sherlock lifted his head from the cushion just enough so that he could be understood, "What if I don't need your help?"

John rolled his eyes and walked to the kitchen to make his friend's tea. Sherlock twisted his head to watch him, smiling a bit when he realized what he was doing. He sat up slowly, wincing at the pain that reignited in his shoulder.

"You okay?" John called from the kitchen. Glancing in his direction, Sherlock nodded slightly and tried to rub the soreness away.

"Don't touch it," he scolded as he returned with the tea. "You'll probably end up making it worse; then you'll really have to be cooped up in here, and not just on my orders. Now, let me see…" John tried to pull the bathrobe off, but Sherlock shrugged his hand away.

"No," he protested.

"Sherlock…" John warned.

"John…"

"Just a look, I won't even touch it, if that's what you're scared of."

"I'm not scared. But even so, how can I trust you?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"That's what you told me last night, 'Oh, I won't touch your shoulder.'" Sherlock said mocking John's voice. "And then you go and shove back into its socket without warning me."

"It had to be done. It would've started to heal the wrong way, then you'd _really_ have a problem. Plus, it's better when you don't tell them when you're going to do it."

"That makes no sense."

"Yes, it does."

"No. It doesn't."

"Stop this now, Sherlock. You're being childish."

"Childish?"

"Yes. Now let me see your shoulder."

"No. Like I said, I do not need your help." Defiant.

"You need to let me look at it. It was dislocated. It could be broken, or worse." Concerned.

"I'm fine."

"I'm a doctor."

That ended the conversation. Sherlock pulled his bathrobe tight with his left hand, his good hand, and John scowled at him. He was about to the point where he was starting to consider shoving him into a taxi and taking him to the hospital, but that probably wouldn't end well. The staff was never quite 'friendly' with Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson saved them both from another confrontation.

"Good morning boys," she walked into the room and immediately stopped. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting…something?" John exhaled, and Sherlock glanced at him, unsure.

"No. Nope, nothing," he said, getting up from the spot next to Sherlock and grabbed his coffee. He still couldn't figure out why people thought they were gay.

"Well, alright then, I was just coming to say good morning. Oh! And, I forgot to tell you, my granddaughter is coming to stay for a while, I hope you won't mind," she said. Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh and leaned his head back on the couch. John glared at him and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that's perfectly fine. _We_ will be happy to have her here."

"Well, alright…" Mrs. Hudson looked at John. Her tone suggested that she didn't believe the 'we' in his sentence, but would accept the answer anyway. "You might like her Sherlock; she's kind of like you." With that she bustled back down the stairs and John turned to Sherlock.

"What is wrong with you?"

"What? What did I do?" he cast back.

"You don't just…do things like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what. That face. The sigh?"

"What about it?"

"You just don't _do _that Sherlock. Have some respect. She's our landlady."

"I still don't see the problem here."

John sighed, "You never do, do you?" Sherlock glowered.

"I don't like children."

"So that's your problem?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"They're loud, touch everything and generally ruin everything."

"I see…"

"Come to think of it, you sometimes remind me of a child…" Sherlock said under his breath.

"Hey! I heard that." Sherlock glanced up and smirked.

"She isn't coming up here," he held his gaze with John, hoping that he would agree.

"Fine, as long as you're nice to her. Don't scare her off, please?"

"I don't intentionally scare people, they are just afraid of intelligence."

John sighed, realizing he wasn't going to win this battle. "I'm going to get ready. Clean up this place a bit, will you? It looks like a pair of pigs live here." As he left the room, the distinct sound of squeaking leather caught up to him.

Sherlock had lain back down.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Hello all! Back again with another chapter! I tried to keep them in character, please, again, help me. Give me suggestions and tips on keeping them in character, especially Sherlock. He's a tough cookie (; Read, REVIEW (I beg you) and enjoy!**_

John walked up Baker Street after a short trip to the shops. Sherlock had asked him to pick up a few things for an experiment. He placed the bags on the ground and patted his coat pockets to find the one that housed his keys.

"Left pants pocket." John jumped at the voice, not knowing where it came from. He glanced around, only to find a young teen sitting on an old suitcase just before his stoop.

"What?" He asked her, assuming she was the one who spoke. She wasn't looking at him, rather, at the ground as if the pebbles that were scattered there held blueprints to her future.

"Your keys are in your left pants pocket. The back one," she said again, but this time she looked up at him. He was a bit startled by her eyes. They shone an intense green with flecks of brown and highlights of gold.

John let out a coherent, "Uh..." and moved his hand to the instructed pocket. Sure enough, his keys were there.

"How did you..." he trailed off, giving her a questioning look.

"You live here?" She asked, not answering his question. The girl looked about 16 or 17, in John's opinion, and she had bright red hair that waved around her face. It cascaded down over her shoulders, not stopping until it reached midway down her back. Light freckles dappled her nose and trickled down over its bridge. She wore a thin, gold band around her head. A white dress flowed over her thin frame, but by the way she folded her legs under her, John could tell she was fairly tall. To him, she looked like something out of a magazine or an ancient Greek goddess.

"Hm?" John realized that he was probably not making a great impression on this girl.

"Do you live here?" She said again, patiently. Her eyes flickered as if she already knew the answer, but was going to wait politely for him to solidify it.

"Yes. I live in 221B. Why?"

"Well, would you mind letting me in? My grandmother, Mrs. Mary Hudson, lives..."

"Oh!" John cut her off. He remembered what Mrs. Hudson had told them this morning. "Yes! She said you would be coming. Not much about you, just that her granddaughter would be arriving today. Mrs. Hudson is our landlady; she's such a sweetheart, you know," he rambled. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The girl was already behind him with her suitcase in one hand and John's bags in the other.

"Here you are, Mr..." she waited for him to fill in his name.

"Watson. Doctor Watson, actually, but you can just call me John. I've never been the formal type," he took his bags and shook her hand with a bright smile.

"Melody." She returned it with an equally dazzling one and they entered the flat. "I'm not quite sure where she is, though. I've been waiting for some time now." John now picked up traces of a Scottish accent, but it sounded watered down, more British. He couldn't exactly place its origin.

"I believe I heard her go out this morning. She's probably just gone out to get some needed things." John watched as the girl looked into the empty apartment. "You know, Melody, why don't you come up to our flat and wait. I'd hate for you to be alone."

She smiled. "I'd like that...but..."her smile faded. "Our?"

"Oh," John had forgot about Sherlock. He'd also forgotton he'd said that she wouldn't be allowed in their flat. He pondered for a quick second, and resolved that Sherlock would just have to get over himself; he wasn't about to revoke his invitation. "My flatmate, Sherlock."

John pushed open the door and called into the flat. "Sherlock!" At first, there was no response, but then sounds of shuffling papers and clinking glass attested to his presence. "Sherlock! I have your...um...stuff!" At that, the sounds stopped.

"John, I have to tell you, I found your-" Sherlock rounded the corner and stopped abruptly when he saw Melody standing in the doorway behind John. "Who's that?"

"This is Melody," he said, looking at her. "Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter."

"I thought I told you she-" he started.

"Sherlock," John warned with a stern look. Sherlock wanted to protest, he could see it, but he was trying to restrain himself.

"Pleasure to meet you," Melody spoke up from behind John. Sherlock looked at her with intent, about to make a full analysis, but found he couldn't "notice" anything. He was taken aback, and really could only deduce the basics. Age, weight, height, the easy things...but not much else.

"As to you..." He said in a somewhat dazed tone.

"So, John said you were doing an experiment about the rate of decay in human anatomy," she said nonchalantly.

"He did?" Sherlock questioned.

"I did?" John echoed.

"You could _say_ he told me..." she said, holding her eyes firm to Sherlock's.

"What did he really tell you?"

"Nothing," she said shrugging.

"Then how did you know about my experiments?"

"I didn't," she said simply.

"You didn't know?"

"No. I noticed." At her last words, Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. He hadn't been ignoring Mrs. Hudson when she told them about her granddaughter. Her words "She's kind of like you, Sherlock" had been with him all morning. He wanted to see just how "like him" this girl was. Now he would get to see.

"Noticed? Noticed what?"

"I was sitting outside when John came, I asked him if he would open the door. As he did so, I took up his bag and perhaps have seen the ingredients on the top. Not your ordinary, run of the mill groceries, I'd say. We walked in, and I saw faded bloody spots on the floor and staircase, suggesting either a fight, murder, or perhaps a leaky shopping bag. I looked again, and realized it was, in fact, human blood because of the way it had stained and effected the wood. That ruled out shopping bags, unless you were a scientist of some kind and you like your 'meat', for lack of a nice term, fresh. Upon asking about you in the hall, or at least John's flatmate, he didn't seem too enthusiastic to let me in, futhering my suspicions that whoever it was up there must be up to something. That, or he was a complete jerk to visitors. On the way up, as well as inside your flat, I noticed the smell of rotting flesh- yes I do know what that smells like, and no I am not too young to know it- and formaldehyde. This solidifies the scientific suspicion and when I heard the papers rustling I knew it was an experiment. You'd need papers to record your findings as well as know all the information, off-hand, about what you were experimenting on. See? Noticed."

Sherlock was full fledged smiling, now, and John just stood aside, mouth agape.

"That was brilliant." John's chin just about hit the floor when he heard the words come in Sherlock's baritone voice. "You notice very well."

"Thank you," a small smile forming on her lips. "I tend to notice a lot of things."

"John! I must thank you for bringing Melody up here, she is not a child, nor anything like what I expected her to be. Please, will you two excuse me as I wrap up over here, it will only take a second, promise. John, make her some tea. Melody, make yourself at home, it will be a pleasure having you. I can't wait to talk to you a bit more," Sherlock turned and exited into his dining-room-turned-laboratory.

John stood staring at the spot where Sherlock had just been standing. "Something wrong?" Melody's voice broke his awed trance.

"Hm? Oh, no. It's just...he took that way better than I thought he would," he admitted.

"Took what?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes, he told me this morning that he hated children. He didn't want you to come up to our flat."

"Oh. Well, I'm certainly not a child, so he should've had nothing to worry about." John smiled and showed her inside.


End file.
